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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25386604">here is the deepest secret</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/chlorobenzene/pseuds/chlorobenzene'>chlorobenzene</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Learning How to Communicate Like Emotionally Healthy People, M/M, Secret Relationship, emotional tension, resolved emotional tension</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:54:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,384</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25386604</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/chlorobenzene/pseuds/chlorobenzene</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They cannot be, and still they make space for each other, this nameless thing between them a shadow hidden behind decorum and the deserted corners of their castles, away from prying eyes.  A pity, Dimitri thinks, because Claude always looks his best under the sun.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>96</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>here is the deepest secret</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Claude has a face like stained glass—perfectly cut and terribly beautiful, impossible to see through. His time in Almyra has lent a softer cadence to his speech, and now his every word sounds like the beginning of a song. Or maybe it is something Claude does on purpose, yet another line laid thickly to separate his present from his past, King Khalid of Almyra from Claude von Riegan. Gone is the gleam in his eyes that spells out <em>mischief</em> in bold letters, the carefree curl of a mouth that Dimitri has come to be intimately familiar with, inside and out, from their time together in the war council. In its place is a smile like the sheathed dagger Dimitri knows is hidden under his cape, in spite of diplomatic protocols; his gaze is placid, betraying nothing as he begins his opening statement.</p><p>This is a meeting between two kings, and so they both don a mask befitting the role. Claude has made sure to dress for the part, too—sitting straight-backed across Dimitri at the negotiation table, he is a vision made of molten sunlight. Golden threads are sewn into the heavy brocade of his outfit, high collar held together by a brooch inlaid with emerald. An earring the shape of a wyvern's wing rests delicately on the curve of his ear, its delicate metalwork far beyond the reach of any smith in all corners of Faerghus. It is a blatant show of wealth, a tantalizing taste of what Almyra has to offer if both countries agree to push this trade agreement forward; even Faerghus' most conservative ministers would be hard-pressed to argue against establishing ties with such a formidable trading partner. Their objections are reduced to judgmental frown and pursed lips, callous words whispered behind the Almyran delegation's back even as the same ministers welcome them to Faerghus with a smile and a bow.</p><p>Claude smiles and bows in return, the stretch of his mouth so wide that his cheeks dimpled. He looks—<em>untouchable</em>, Dimitri thinks. His every gesture comes out diffused, as polished into faultlessness as they are—devised to draw people in, but never any nearer than an arm's length. Dimitri wonders if Claude knows that they have an opposite effect on him, if Claude could see the desire burning low behind his eyelids. If he knows that one look at Claude's high collar fills Dimitri with a sudden, overwhelming need to rip his brooch off with his teeth and press a finger on the skin stretching over his collarbones, to feel Claude's warmth underneath these layers of gold and stake his claim, letting Claude do the same for him in return.</p><p>He can't. He knows he can't—they have agreed to it, many moons ago, as they laid in Dimitri's bed with their eyes wide open, trying to delay the inevitable arrival of dawn. Neither of them has the privilege for such indulgence when the world still smolders with the embers of a civil war, when the word <em>peace</em> still tastes of ashes.</p><p><em>We cannot be, Dima</em>, Claude had said. <em>Not now</em>. He had listed one reason after another in the crook of Dimitri's neck, his voice low and measured, each one more sensible than the last. He had reached reason number six—accusations of conspiracy and treason, a rot within their respective thrones—before Dimitri had turned around and kissed him, inhaled the words leaving Claude's mouth until he shuddered in Dimitri's arms and fell silent, the flat of his palm resting on Dimitri's chest.</p><p>They cannot be, and still they make space for each other, this nameless thing between them a shadow hidden behind decorum and the deserted corners of their castles, away from prying eyes. A pity, Dimitri thinks, because Claude always looks his best under the sun.</p><p>"...Your Majesty."</p><p>His Minister of Foreign Affairs coughs delicately, and it is then that Dimitri realizes that Claude has finished his opening statement, a few seconds ago. The knight sitting on Claude's left—<em>Nader</em>, Dimitri recalls as his gaze sweeps over the battle scars marring his features, <em>Nader the Undefeated</em>—frowns at this diplomatic <em>faux pas</em>, lips thinning with displeasure.</p><p>"My apologies," Dimitri says. The weight of Nader's gaze doesn't ease up, but Dimitri is not looking at him. Instead his gaze is drawn to Claude's face, the slight upturn of his lips. A smile meant for Dimitri alone, small and private, for a single second before his features return to their polished smoothness.</p><p>"King Khalid of Almyra," Dimitri begins his speech, and his plan for the evening is decided in that second.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>On their way to the dining hall one king whispers to the other: "Later—may I?"</p><p>"Of course, Your Kingliness," the other replies.</p><p>They are both smiling.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The corridor leading to Claude's room is deserted. The Almyran delegation did not have elaborate demands, but their last missive had come with a separate letter in Claude's tiny and cramped handwriting, sealed with a personal seal instead of his royal one: <em>no guards, ground-floor bedroom</em>. Claude had written another sentence under the request, the ink of the first letter almost bleeding through the heavy paper: <em>looking forward to seeing you again, Dima</em>.</p><p>Dimitri thinks of the letter as he walks down the corridor, heart beating faster by every step until he could feel it in his throat, under his tongue. A part of him realizes how ridiculous he must have looked, tiptoeing around in a castle he grew up in, a castle he now rules from. This feels like one of his clandestine walks to Garreg Mach's library, hiding from the guards and Seteth's hawkish eyes as he seeks out solace from his ghosts among the tall bookshelves only to find Claude already there, a book in his hand and a candle burning low on the desk. The thrill he's feeling now is not quite the same, but it's there, nonetheless, the undercurrent of it familiar.</p><p>He knocks on Claude's door—four slow raps, followed by two raps in rapid successions—and when it swings open Dimitri allows himself a single second to be overtaken by the blade-sharp feeling of <em>want.</em> Claude hasn't changed out of his court uniform, the only bright thing in the stone-greyness of the empty corridor. The brooch is nowhere to be seen, and Dimitri could see a sliver of Claude's adam's apple peeking through the gap between his collar. A shame—he had looked forward to ripping it out himself, after all, but the feeling goes away almost as quickly as it came when Claude's eyes meet his.</p><p>"King Dimitri," Claude says, but his voice has softened, all its glass-like formalities sanded off. Behind him, the sight of the four-poster bed looks like an invitation that their rules do not allow.</p><p>"You've never been to Fhirdiad Castle before," Dimitri asks instead. Claude's clever eyes shine brighter—he has always loved games, even ones they have to play out of necessity.</p><p>"I'm afraid so. Which is unfortunate—this place looks wonderful."</p><p>Claude sounds earnest, and Dimitri finds himself smiling. The castle, like most buildings in Faerghus, is built to withstand the hardship of long winters, a lone figure in grey surrounded by two layers of curtain walls as thick as a Faerghan man is tall, constantly bracing for attacks. <em>Wonderful</em> isn't a word most people would use to describe it, with its severe-looking turrets and dark corridors. There is no majestic view of the sea, like Dimitri knows the Riegan Keep has; no sprawling gardens bustling with colors and life, like the ones Claude told him is a common sight in Almyra.</p><p>Still Dimitri loves every stone of this castle, how it has seen more than its fair share of hardship and suffering, war and bloodshed, and still it stands tall and watchful as a sentinel. He wants to show Claude the library, the shelf tucked in the far corner that holds Dimitri's personal collection; bring him to the inner courtyard where Dimitri trains with his knights and tell him about how Dimitri could see their loyalty in the way they do not hold back against their own king. He wants to show him the cathedral, with its stained glass panels depicting the history of Faerghus that had been Dimitri's favorite thing in the castle, when he was a child. He wants to point to a particularly brilliant verdant pane of glass and tells Claude of how he goes to the cathedral, sometimes, not to pray but simply to look at that one pane of glass, the color of which reminds him of Claude's eyes.</p><p>"I could show you around," Dimitri offers.</p><p>"A guided tour, by the King himself? What did I ever do to you to deserve this honor?" There's a glint of challenge in Claude's gaze, as if he expects Dimitri to tell him <em>exactly</em> what he has done, in excruciating details.</p><p>Dimitri doesn't take the bait—not now, not this soon. "Consider this a courtesy to be repaid," he says instead, and takes a small pleasure in the way Claude's eyebrows shoot delicately upward.</p><p>"Such a hard bargain," Claude is smirking, now. "Lead the way, Your Kingliness."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Side by side they walk through the hallways. It's the closest Dimitri has been to Claude in months, close enough that he can catch a whiff of Claude's perfume—honey and cedar, a taste of summer on his skin. There is something intimate about this, the infinitesimal distance between them as the history of his childhood home spills out of Dimitri's mouth like wine. Claude is an excellent listener, nodding in the right moment and asking the right questions; his laugh when he sees a portrait of Dimitri's younger self, his cheeks chubby and his hair long, is a sound so smooth it's almost liquid.</p><p>Before long the sun is setting, its pale gold rays turning orange-red, and Dimitri is half-way through explaining the exploits of Queen Caron the Brave when he realizes that Claude is gathering his coat tighter around him, his jaw tight.</p><p>"My apologies," Dimitri says as he stops in the middle of the hallway, frowning. "I didn't realize you're cold."</p><p>Claude tries to smile; it comes out as something resembling a grimace. "I might have, <em>ah</em>, overestimated my resistance to the fabled Faerghan weather."</p><p>A heartbeat passes as Dimitri contemplates what he is about to say, the offer that has made its home on the tip of his tongue. "There's a fireplace in my study."</p><p>Claude's smile is slow and viscous as honey. "A fireplace sounds <em>delightful</em>."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Claude sighs when the door of Dimitri's study closes behind them, rubbing his hands together as his gaze sweeps across the interior of the room. There is a map of Faerghus pinned to the wall, above a high-backed leather chair and a colossal table. One side of the room is fitted with shelves, so full of books that some of the panels bow under their weight. On the other side are a wide settee and a couple of armchairs set around a low table, their deep Blaiddyd blue upholstery one of the only bright colors in the room. True to Dimitri's words, there's a stone fireplace across the seating, its fire already burning.</p><p>Claude wastes no time to drape himself across the settee, letting out an appreciative hum low in his throat. Dimitri takes a seat in the armchair on his left, suddenly aware of the way Claude's wyvern earring reflects the warm light of the fireplace.</p><p>"The earring—I've never seen it before."</p><p>"Oh, this?" Claude's hand reaches up to touch the shell of his ear, and that gesture alone is enough to make Dimitri swallow thickly. "One of our artisans gift it to me—my Keeper of the Wardrobe told me to wear it for this visit, said my usual earring was too drab. What do you think?" He tilts his head up, craning his neck to Dimitri's direction. The additional inch of Claude's neck bared by the gesture turns something low in Dimitri's stomach into a tight knot.</p><p>Dimitri thinks of the Claude from several hours ago, the one with an impenetrable gaze and the air of perfunctory geniality. He thinks of the width of the negotiation table separating them and the desire he felt to do exactly this, reaching out to feel the metal under his finger, sharp and cold, and how it contrasts with the delicate cartilage of Claude's ear. He drags his finger lower with painstaking slowness, a glacier melting downstream, caressing the sharpness of Claude's jaw and lower still, slipping his finger into Claude's collar until he could feel the staccato beats of Claude's pulse under his skin.</p><p>Claude's gaze is heavy, eyes lidded as he shivers—not from the cold, this time.</p><p>"Dima," Claude says, a command and a plea at once.</p><p>Dimitri is on top of him in a matter of seconds, torso hovering just above Claude's own as he drops one knee to the floor and flings the other to one side of the settee, not caring about how they both still have their shoes on, not when he could feel the press of Claude's thigh against his calf. Claude circles his arms around Dimitri's neck, and his mouth feels like victory on Dimitri's own—all inebriating, sun-dipped warmth. Dimitri loves it, loves <em>him</em>, the way every Faerghus-born man longs for summer.</p><p>Claude makes an encouraging sound and Dimitri's hand makes its way down Claude's coat, opening its hidden clasps one by one as Claude moans deeper into his mouth. He's more than halfway through the task at hand when it happens: his hand brushes Claude's torso and the latter hisses in pain at the touch, almost inaudibly, the sound of it swallowed by Dimitri's mouth. Dimitri jerks back in reflex, pulling away from Claude and standing up, eyes narrow.</p><p>"You are—injured," Dimitri states, feeling like someone just doused him with cold water. Claude is sitting straighter now, his hair mussed and coat half-open, the look in his eyes just a touch too casual to be anything but a facade.</p><p>"It is taken care of," Claude answers, and he doesn't say that he's <em>fine</em>—he is too practiced in deceit for that. "Don't give me that look—I've been injured plenty and I'm still here, aren't I?"</p><p>"Let me see it." Dimitri has seen Claude's crest in action, the speed with which it heals Claude's wounds. For Claude to still be in pain and unable to conceal it means that the wound is still fresh enough or bad enough for even the Riegan crest to be much use—the thought of it makes Dimitri queasy. He thinks of Claude's handwritten request—<em>no guard, ground-floor bedroom</em>; in his elation for Claude's arrival he did not think of the implications behind it, had forgotten about the scraps of information that Claude had told him about his life in Almyra in the carefully light tone that he only ever uses to soften a severe situation.</p><p>"I would rather we pick up where we left off,"Claude's smile has gotten cat-like, his lower lip still flushed from the kiss. He looks perfect, beautiful and debauched, and he knows it. But Dimitri has learned to see through him—not always, not as often as Dimitri would have liked, but enough to know the sleight of hand that Claude is currently doing.</p><p>"<em>Please</em>," Dimitri is not above pleading, when necessary. He reaches out to touch Claude's cheek, a feather-light caress, and after a moment of hesitation Claude allows himself to lean into the touch.</p><p>"You worry too much," Claude sighs, but they both know it as what it is: a concession. He starts unbuttoning the shirt he's worn under the coat, one button after another, and in any other time Dimitri would have unbuttoned it himself, would have ripped a few buttons off of it if Claude allows him. But all he could do now is to watch mutely as the shirt opens to reveal a scar, pale and raised, stark against the flat of Claude's stomach.</p><p>Dimitri pales at the sight, the grotesquely long, straight line of it. He has seen enough battle wounds, enough dead bodies to know what caused it: a single, powerful slice—more than enough to incapacitate, enough to <em>kill</em>. "What—" he begins, but his voice turns strangled in his mouth. <em>What happened, who did this, why—</em></p><p>Claude buttons his shirt back up, looking at Dimitri in the eye with sharpness so sudden it takes Dimitri off guard. "These things happen, Dimitri. You and I both know this." There is something distant and clinical in his voice, as if he's explaining something that happened to another person in another lifetime. Gone is the Claude with easy gestures and open-mouthed laughs, the one whose smile actually lights up his eyes—in his place is the Claude with a smile so sharp it's weaponized, who keeps everyone at arm's length because life has taught him that closeness equals a blade in his back and hands around his neck.</p><p>"When—" Dimitri tries again, voice stiff. His hands are clenched so tight on his sides they hurt.</p><p>"A few weeks ago," Claude shrugs, airy.</p><p>"<em>Claude,</em>" Dimitri all but growls through gritted teeth. How many letters have they exchanged in the past few weeks? Claude had written about the feasts he held, the foreign delegations he entertained, the eggs that one of his beloved wyverns had laid. Anything but the fact that he got <em>disemboweled</em>, hurt so badly that even his Crest, powerful as it is, is straining to fix him.</p><p>"I knew you would react like this, if I told you," Claude says, as if he could read what Dimitri is thinking. "You don't need to worry about me on top of everything else, Dimitri."</p><p>"Of course I'd worry about you! I l—"</p><p>"<em>Don't</em>." Claude is standing now, looking up at Dimitri. The iciness in his voice makes Dimitri feel as if both of them are standing on a frozen lake, its surface cracking under their weight. "We promised, Dimitri. We didn't agree to <em>that</em>."</p><p>Dimitri knows this. He also knows how tiring it is, the kind of exhaustion that carves its place in your chest, one fragment at a time, unnoticeable until it is too late, your heart hollowed out and bleeding. "I wish you'd let me worry about you," he says, his throat suddenly dry.</p><p>"That's rich, coming from someone who keeps trying to keep me in the dark about his nightmares."</p><p>Dimitri flinches as if he's been slapped. Claude wields his words like his bow, experience and skill allowing him to hit his target where it hurts the most, with terrifying precision. Regret flashes in Claude's eyes for a brief moment, but he is standing his ground, looking up with the look of an archer ready to shoot again if necessary.</p><p>"My nightmares aren't trying to kill me," Dimitri cannot aim his words with Claude's precision, but he knows how to thrust them forcefully enough to hurt, too.</p><p>Claude's laughter comes out in a sharp, sudden burst. "Are they? Because sometimes I wonder if I would lose you to your ghosts, if someday they would succeed in convincing you to do something <em>stupid</em> and then I—" he cuts himself short, hands making an abortive motion at his sides as he takes a step back, the back of his knees bumping into the frame of the settee. Claude's expression is completely open, for once, mask too cracked for him to put back together again, and Dimitri could see the worry in the tenseness of his jaw, the anger in the space between his eyebrows. The unnamed emotion that flickers in his eyes, the way they crackle like a forest on fire.</p><p>Dimitri slumps into the armchair, running his hand through his hair, looking up at Claude with a self-deprecating smile. "We are terrible at this, aren't we."</p><p>And just like that the tension in Claude's back is gone, his shoulders losing their stiffness. His smile, weak as it might be, is genuine as he nods. "We are."</p><p>It's Claude who approaches Dimitri first, this time, sitting on the floor in front of Dimitri as his head rests on Dimitri's upper thigh. A part of Dimitri, the one who has spent what feels like multiple lifetimes being drilled about royal etiquette by his tutor, is horrified at the sight of a foreign monarch by his feet. The other part of him, who has lost count of the number of times both of them have spent on their knees throughout the years, is quick to silence it. He runs his fingers through Claude's hair, enjoying its thickness as Claude sighs, long and content.</p><p>They stay like this, for a while, until the bone of Claude's jaw begins to make his thigh ache. He drops his hands to Claude's sides, then, and Claude makes a noise that sounds close to a whine but lets himself be handled until he is sitting on Dimitri's lap proper, his hand on either side of Dimitri's shoulders for balance.</p><p>"I want to try," Dimitri says at last. "I want to—share more of me with you, if you'd allow me to do the same for you."</p><p>He realizes that he meant it, that he doesn't seem to mind Claude knowing about the nights when he wakes up feeling more beast than human, how he'd go to the small creek in the forest behind the castle and put his hands in the icy, running water for minutes on end, as if that act alone could get rid of the blood that seems to have made its home under his skin. How he often wishes for Claude to be here, by his side when he wakes up, rubbing small circles on his back as he whispers <em>you're okay, you're okay, you're okay</em> until Dimitri starts believing in it too.</p><p>Certain things he can't tell to Claude, still—not now, maybe not ever. The tender, ever-bleeding wounds in his memory that he can't find the strength to even say out loud. He knows that it's the same with Claude. But maybe it is time for them to learn how to lean on each other more, beyond the easy, familiar comfort of their bodies. There isn't much they can offer to each other, not anytime soon, but Dimitri wants to be able to offer this: a promise, a key to the bruised parts of him that he has kept locked shut for far too long, a faith in Claude to carry his secrets between his teeth.</p><p>Claude is silent on top of him, angling his face away so Dimitri can't see his expression. "Claude?" Dimitri asks. "Love, please look at me."</p><p>Claude does. His cheeks are dry, but there's a tightness around his eyes that lets Dimitri know that Claude is holding back tears. Claude's hands make their way to cup Dimitri's cheeks, and he isn't quite looking at Dimitri when he opens his mouth to speak.</p><p>"You are the first, did you know that?" Claude smiles like he can't help it, small and easy and true. "Nobody else has ever asked," he laughs. "I'm not sure I know <em>how</em> to do this."</p><p>Dimitri tilts Claude's jaw up so he can look at him more clearly, at those eyes like twin pools in the middle of a forest, reflecting the trees surrounding it. He would drown in those pools, if Claude would let him.</p><p>"Do you want to know a secret?" Dimitri asks, low and throaty, and <em>ah</em>, maybe Claude isn't the only one who looks like he's about to cry.</p><p>Claude nods, and Dimitri can hear his own voice in the air between them milliseconds before his lips descend on Claude's, as if bestowing him a mouthful of secrets.</p><p>"You're the first for me, too."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The fire is burnt to embers when they are finished with each other, sore in the most pleasant ways. There is a bruise the shape of Dimitri's teeth on the juncture of Claude's neck, a dozen others scattered throughout his body—Dimitri is looking forward to seeing Claude tomorrow, his stained glass face and the high collar hiding the bruise, and remembers the way he looks when Dimitri licks the mark afterward, the little sounds he makes when Dimitri's tongue continues its way downward. Dimitri tells him as much.</p><p>"Mmm," is Claude's response, his smirk wicked. He's buttoning his coat up, arranging his hair back to a more appropriate level of messiness. "And I am hoping that your terms on <em>reciprocal privileges</em> are as good as your...practical examples, Your Kingliness."</p><p>Dimitri flushes red to his ears.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The day of the Almyran delegation's departure is bright and windy, the perfect day for a flight. Claude is saddling his own wyvern, patting its snout as it screeches and squirms, eager to spread its wings again. He approaches Dimitri when he is done, the delegation spread out behind him.</p><p>"Thank you for your generous reception, Your Majesty," Claude says, bowing. He is wearing his mask again, as is Dimitri, but there is something lighter about it now. His tone sounds almost teasing.</p><p>"It has been my utmost pleasure," Dimitri replies, just as lightly. If his ministers think he sounds happier, well, he could always chalk it up to a successful round of negotiation.</p><p>"Our delegation will send you further details of our terms in about two weeks, for review."</p><p>"I am looking forward to it." For a closer tie between their two countries, the sign of dawn breaking over a world that Claude has seen in his dreams. For Claude's letter, secret and private; the parts of him, long-hidden, put into words at last. For the chance to do the same, over and over, until it is time for them to meet again.</p><p>This nameless thing between them might have to remain hidden, for now, but more than ever Dimitri is sure of a future where they would finally be able to bring it into the light, the way they bring each other into the light. As he watches Claude take flight in a gust of wind and a flash of gold, Dimitri thinks of the inevitability of summer, and smiles.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>baby's first contribution to the dimiclaude fandom...it's me i'm baby. this is very self-indulgent but i hope you enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it! i love them so much and i hope i did them justice, even if the only thing in my brain when i wrote the last part was dimiclaude as captain holt and his husband in that one B99 scene:</p><p>claude: i wasn't injured. i was lightly disemboweled.<br/>dimitri: i'm sorry, you were <i>disemboweled</i>?<br/>claude: <i>lightly</i> disemboweled. i didn't want to frighten you.</p><p>and that's it that's basically the scene jskfjskfjsk</p><p>title of the fic is from e.e. cumming's i carry your heart with me bc i am a sap. </p><p>thank you so much for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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